The Rising Son
by Hollywithaneye
Summary: Three years after the Archdemon's destruction, a new threat rises. With Cousland leading the new Grey Wardens, can she and the King put aside their differences and their past long enough to save a kingdom? Cousland/Alistair
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sleep had always been difficult, even before the Taint complicated things.

Ophelia found herself wandering the halls tonight, slippered feet padding softly on the same stone floors she had walked as a child. Dinner had ended long ago, and in the depths of winter the castle had been darkened for hours. The sounds of sleep surrounded her – soft sighs and breathing slipped beneath heavy wooden doors, and she wished again that she could find the same peace that those dreamers did. Her breath hazed around her as she ambled, the ghostly presence her only companionship.

She made her way towards the courtyard, navigating the halls without light. Being outside had always helped when she couldn't sleep. These halls held too many memories, ones that waxed stronger in the depths of night and rose around to press at her with the musty weight of the past. Her mother's quick smile, the laughter of her nephew…Father.

She was surprised to see her oldest Warden Brennan drooping sleepily atop the gates as she stepped into the courtyard, crushing frosted blades of grass that speared the soft soles of her slippers as she drifted closer. She pulled her furred robe tighter around her shoulders to ward out the chill and called out to the nodding guard. "Hail, Brennan. Isn't it a bit cold for your old bones out here?"

The Dalish elf nearly toppled over the edge of the parapet in his sharp snap awake, quickly composing himself and raising a gloved hand in salute. "Don't be so quick to bury me," he grumped. "Maker's Balls, woman. I'm barely twenty years older than you."

"How did you end up the lucky bastard with night watch? Don't we have fresh green recruits for that sort of thing?" She grinned up at him from the base of the wall.

"Lost a game of cards, I did." Brennan cursed and spat on the stones near his feet. "It's bloody freezing up here too. Last time I ever play cards with Percy, that's for sure."

"Well, of course you should know better than that," Ophelia laughed. "Zevran taught every one of those Andersfeldian Wardens how to play the last time he passed through. And if Zevran taught them that means they are most likely cheating to boot."

Brennan grunted in assent. "Aye, I should have known better, if that little bastard Crow is involved." He rubbed his stiff hands together in an effort to warm them and squinted down at her in concern. "But what of you, Ophelia? It's not exactly ideal weather for a midnight stroll, so I doubt you're out here for your own pleasure. "

"No, not pleasure." Her grin faded and shadows crept into her eyes. "The usual."

Brennan nodded understandingly and shrugged. "Happens to us all, sometimes."

Ophelia frowned and scrubbed at her face with one hand, stifling a yawn. "That's just it though, Brennan. Things had died down for awhile, even the dreams had faded. But suddenly they are back? I don't understand." She began pacing a slow circuit around the small courtyard, restless energy seeking a release. "And I been hearing rumors that even the experienced Wardens from Anderfels and Orlais who have come here are Dreaming again. Nothing specific but…well, I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me nervous."

Brennan watched Ophelia haunt the courtyard in slippers and a robe, divested of all armor and weapons, and was reminded again of just how young their leader was. She had seen more in her short life than most would ever, and had survived the worst the Darkspawn had thrown at her. She was exactly what the wrecked Grey Wardens of Ferelden had needed to rebuild themselves, and with the help of Anderfels and Orlais she had managed in a few short years to create a thriving Warden outpost at her old holding Highever.

But tonight, she was just Ophelia. Young enough to be the daughter he'd never have, and Brennan found himself watching her with the concern of a father. She haunted this castle as much as it haunted her.

"What would you have us do then, my Grey Lady? Mount an invasion of the Fade and demand it to send up better dreams?" Brennan teased her lightly, dropping to one knee in mockery, hoping to break her from her brooding silence. Teasing Ophelia was always rolling the dice. Usually she responded in kind but occasionally she retreated, her eyes shuttering as she quickly changed the subject. He never had the heart to ask her who the teasing reminded her of, and he doubted she would tell him anyways.

"Don't be silly. And stop calling me that," came the reply from behind his back, and he was nearly startled off the castle wall again.

"Bloody rogue and your damn sneaking ways!" He bellowed to cover his surprise as he spun around, but was happy to see her grey eyes dance with laughter. "Are you trying to kill me, woman?" He clutched his chest dramatically.

"And rob the Warden Brennan of his glorious end in the Deep Roads? Andraste forbid!" She widened her eyes in mock horror, playing along. "I can see your grave now: Here lies Warden Brennan, felled by a wall." She chuckled and took a seat on the rock parapet beside him.

"No talk of the Deep Road." He ground out. "I'm not that old yet, and you're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Thank the Maker for that." She sighed and picked at the moss growing along the mortar of the wall. "I truly don't know how I'd run this place without you Brennan."

"Oh, about the same, I'd assume. Only who will you have to threaten with castration after I'm gone? Any of the other men would take you seriously, or drop their trousers where they stood out of loyalty. A little dissention within the ranks is good for you, my dear." Brennan laughed at the expression of horror on Ophelia's face before his voice grew somber. "That's why they call you that, you know. You're our Grey Lady. You may not allow yourself to be called Cousland again, but the men need to give you a title. You inspire them, Ophelia."

Her expression twisted in annoyance and she opened her mouth to protest, but Brennan headed her off. "No, you need to hear this. You've been complaining about that nickname for ages now, but it means something to the men. Most of them are more than a little in love with you, and any of them would give their lives for you. They would follow you to the depths of Hell if you asked."

"But I didn't. I didn't ask for any of this. I appreciate the opportunity to serve the Wardens and Fereles, but I am suffocating under the weight of their regard." She bit the ends off each word, anger sharpening her tongue.

"You are a soldier now, girl. You understand morale." Brennan chided her gently. "It is your gift, the ability to lead. You inspire loyalty with your words, and cement it with your actions. Don't deny the men their right to put you on at least a small pedestal. They want to feel as if they serve something greater than themselves."

"I suppose. But do you really think they'd drop their trousers – hold up, what's that?" Ophelia stood from her seat and leaned against the outer parapet, narrowing her eyes towards the south. Brennan moved to join her and they saw a figure approaching the castle gates, staggering slightly with exhaustion.

"Hail!" Ophelia cried out, her voice strong to carry over the winter wind. "Who approaches?

The figure resolved itself into a man, roadstained and gaunt, who stumbled to a stop before the castle gates. He moved with awkward exhaustion, as if his legs had been running so long they had forgotten how to stop moving. "I am Warren, from the South. Near the…Korcari Wilds," the man gasped out. "Is this is holding of the Grey Wardens?"

"It is." Ophelia replied, motioning Brennan to open the small door near the gates as she hurried to descend the wall.

Brennan hesitated, a hand on the latch. "Are you sure? It could be anything, a trap or ambush."

"Yes, I'm sure," she snapped. "Can't you see the man is half dead? Show some compassion, Brennan. And run to tell the staff to prepare a meal and a bed for this man, he looks as if he could use it."

"Compassion can also carry poisoned knives, and slip into bedrooms in the night…just ask Zev." Brennan muttered as he turned the lock on the small wooden door. "But all right, all right!" He threw up his hands at Ophelia's pointed glare and stalked off towards the great hall, muttering under his breath.

Ophelia opened the small door and Warren wobbled through the archway, holding the wall for support. She waited patiently for him to regain his breath before he spoke.

"I come with a message for the Grey Lady." Warren looked around at the empty courtyard, gasping. "Is she in residence?"

"Speaking." Ophelia felt her lips curl in a wry smile at Warren's look of dismay.

"B-but you're…you're –" the messenger sputtered in confusion.

"I'm what? Not old enough? Not tall enough? Not armed enough? Even the greatest of warriors wear pajamas, you know."

"But you're not ugly!" Warren immediately blushed furiously and squirmed under Ophelia's raised eyebrow. "Er, forgive me my lady, that came out wrong. I mean that…well, it's just that in the South the tales say you were scarred. And somehow I expected you to be older. Are you sure you're the Grey Lady?"

Ophelia swept back her long dark bangs to show the angry red slash that bisected her face, running from the right side of her forehead and down across the outer edge of her left eye before disappearing into her scalp above her left ear.

"Archdemons have horns." she said simply before dropping her hair back into place, carefully covering the worst of the scar. "I'm just lucky it missed an eye. Have I convinced you now?

Warren shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Yes, milady. My apologies." He crossed his forearms on his chest and bowed, his soldier's training taking over when manners failed him.

"No harm done. Now what is your message Warren, before we all freeze to death out here?"

"It's darkspawn, milady."

Ophelia felt the breath freeze in her lungs. "Darkspawn? In the Korcari Wilds? There have always been stragglers around," she responded offhandedly, but the Taint screamed in her veins and she struggled to maintain composure. "What is different this time?"

"It's…it's the children." Warren's voice trailed into a stark whisper before he cleared his throat. "I am a guard in one of the small villages, but we can't handle this ourselves. We need help, these aren't the usual raids or hit and run my company and I deal with. The darkspawn are stealing our children. They sweep in under cover of the night and pluck our children straight out of their beds. They have no interest in anyone else, although they will kill anyone who resists them."

"Sweet Andraste," Ophelia swore, clenching her hands into tight fists. She needed a blade in hand so badly she could taste steel on the back of her tongue. Her body flamed with the impulse to throw herself on the road towards the Korcari now, planning be damned. "They're murdering children?"

"No, milady." Warren interrupted, and she struggled to hear him over the gibbering of the Taint in her ears. "It's worse. They want the children alive. They steal them away screaming into the night, take them only Maker knows where, and we haven't seen them again."

Ophelia felt bile rise in her throat, and she was glad her famously large appetite hadn't made an appearance at dinner last night. The Taint rolled in her blood, rubbing like greasy fur inside her skull and she knew this most definitely qualified as Bad.

Brennan tore back into the courtyard, eyeing Warren suspiciously. "Ophelia, wha-"

She held up one trembling hand, silencing him mid-word. Under the weak moonlight her face was washed of all color and warmth, and she looked little more than a statue to him, carved of cold marble and resolution.

"Saddle our horses, and those of five other Wardens. I don't care who, I trust you to choose. We leave, now."

"But…where…_now_?" Brennan sputtered, looking at the moon just rising in the sky. The look on her face scared him more than any darkspawn he'd ever met.

She turned towards the southeast, her eyes drawn like a lodestone to iron. "We ride to Denerim, Brennan. We must see the King."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sparrow song and the creaking of leather saddles were the only sounds heard when dawn finally broke. Of the seven riders on the road, Ophelia was the last one still alert, ramrod straight in the saddle of her horse. The others were too exhausted for idle talk. She made Brennan's back hurt just looking at her.

"Ophelia." He pulled his gelding up alongside her, shaking the worst of his drowsiness away. She ignored him, staring resolutely ahead with a dogged resolution he grudgingly admired. "_Ophelia._"

She blinked slowly and turned towards him, relaxing slightly. She looked as if she had been somewhere, or sometime, else. "Yes, Brennan?"

"Do we ride to battle?"

She blinked at him in confusion, furrowing her brow. "Of course not. We ride to Denerim. To see the King. I've told you this already, have I not?"

"Then why do you look as if we are about to face a Blight army? Relax woman, you're scaring the other Wardens. And your horse."

Ophelia glanced back at the other five, strung out behind her and Brennan on the road. Most were slumped in their saddles, roused from bed far too early, but they all eyed her warily. "I'm not going to bite them."

"You look as if you might." Brennan chuckled, and nudged his mount gently in line with her own. "Or as if you are riding to your own execution."

Ophelia relaxed the reigns she had fisted tightly in her hands, and the twitching of nervous horseflesh beneath her ceased. How could she explain to Brennan that she might have preferred riding to her own execution? Three years had passed since she last set foot in Denerim. Three years since she had seen him, since he had plucked the heart from her chest and handed it back to her wrapped in pretty ribbons of duty and honor.

With a sigh she reached up to unbuckle the helm strapped on her head, shaking her dark hair out and rubbing at her forehead. Maker's Sweat, what was wrong with her? She'd dealt with this, finished with it. So why did she feel as if she was riding into the mouth of a dragon?

"Have you met the King? During your travels?" Brennan continued, unaware of the stricken look on her face. "I hadn't heard much about the fall of the archdemon while in Orlais, and your holding is so isolated from the city. I've never heard the full version of what happened, only that you were with the group responsible for our victory."

Ophelia caught herself grimacing. "Yes. I have met the King. Did you hear of the Warden Alistair, who also defeated the archdemon?"

"Of course, we have all heard the name of Warden Alistair. You and he are the two greatest Wardens of our time, the only ones to have faced an archdemon and survived." Brennan fished a ration out of his saddlebag and nibbled idly before cocking his head in curiousity. "Why did he not help you rebuild the Wardens at Highever?"

"He did." Ophelia gestured towards the southeast, where the tops of Denerim's roofs were just coming into view in the far distance. "Did you not wonder? Why the Warden and the King have the same name? It was the King who gave me Highever again, and the funds to rebuild the Wardens."

Brennan choked on a bite of ration bar. "You mean to tell me that the Warden Alistair and the King Alistair are the same man?" He coughed around the words. "Maker's Balls, what were you Ferelden's _thinking_? Sending your King to fight an archdemon?"

"Well, he was a Warden long before he was a king. He felt that was where his duty lay. It was only afterwards that he assumed full power of the throne."

Brennan frowned, brushing crumbs off the front of his leather breastplate. "So wait. You mean to tell me that you spent months traipsing around Ferelden with the future king? "

Ophelia shrugged defensively. "Well, it's not like I knew at first. He never even mentioned that his father was the former King until we had been traveling for some time."

"I wonder why?"

Ophelia rocked in her saddle, seeking a more comfortable seat. When she answered, her voice came out harsher than she intended. "I don't know, Brennan. Perhaps he was tired of being judged. Or perhaps he was running from his heritage. He told me once why he had hidden his past. But…I can't remember his answer."

Brennan glanced at her. The tension in her hands, the muscles in her jaw working – he'd played enough cards with her to know when she wasn't being honest. He pressed a little more, trying to get insight into his Lady. "And why have you never spoken of him before now?"

Her silence stretched out so long that he though she was going to ignore the question completely.

"I just haven't," she finally growled before kicking her horse sharply ahead, swiftly leaving Brennan behind to puzzle out his transgressions alone.

"And so you can clearly see that the Arl's idle comments have ruined my daughter's chances at making a good marriage. I demand restitution from him, for her spoiled prospects!" The florid Bann's face grew even redder as he railed, and Alistair desperately hoped his face didn't show the boredom he was feeling. It was Tuesday, and he hated Tuesdays. Worst day of the week, and not just because it was the day of public court.

"Well, is she?" Alistair interrupted the Bann's escalating tirade, squirming in a way he hoped was discreet on the throne. Maker, why couldn't they make these things more comfortable? All gold and fine fabrics and no cushioning.

The bann halted his rant, a frown creasing his balding forehead. "Is she what, sire?"

"_Is_ your daughter a fat pig?" he asked, amused at the shocked expression that bloomed on the Bann's face. "Because I can't very well fine the Arl for speaking the truth can I?"

The Bann sputtered for a few moments like a landed fish, but before he could draw breath to launch into another campaign in the defense of his daughter Alistair held up a hand. "Enough man. I see your point, and I grant your case. Speak with the chamberlain on your way out and he will see that you are compensated until I can deal with the Arl."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." The Bann bowed stiffly before turning away from the dais and collecting his daughter from amongst the assembled nobility. Come to think of it, she did look rather porcine. All pink plump skin and beady eyes. But he would have never heard the end of it if the Bann hadn't felt compensated in some way. Alistair could barely contain the wicked smile that threatened when he pictured the Bann speaking with the chamberlain. After all, he hadn't specified how _much_ the man should be compensated, had he? And trying to squeeze money from the chamberlain was like trying to get blood from a stone.

Occasionally, it was good to be King.

Noises in the corridor outside his hall interrupted his second hearing of the afternoon. Probably for the best, since he may have been driven to physical harm of himself if he had to listen to another Bann's complaint about who's livestock was doing what in who's field. A liveried servant stumbled through the ornately carved great doors at the far end of the hall and Alistair couldn't be sure if he had fallen or been pushed.

"Your Majesty, I tried to – they wouldn't wait – they –" he desperately scrambled for words as seven heavily armored men filed past him, striding commandingly up the elaborately woven runner towards the throne and dais. "Er – mayIpresenttheGreyWardens, sire!" he cried in a jumble as they ignored him.

The seven men made their way up the long hall, arranging themselves into a small V formation with one Warden at their head. Murmurs of shock drifted up from the assembled nobility, the tide of protest rising loudly enough to drown out the clanking of metal armor. Alistair stood from his throne and found his hand straying unconsciously towards the pommel of the decorative sword he wore strapped to his hip. The memories of civil war had not faded enough for him to completely forgo all caution when it came to armed men in his great hall. His guards came alive, drawing themselves in towards the king in a subtle show of strength.

The group reached his throne, and the six trailing Wardens all shifted subtly towards their leader, watching for his action. Alistair held one hand up to quiet the court and waited for the leader to speak. Silence stretched out before the assembly, and Alistair realized with dismay that he had forgotten the damn protocol. Again. His advisers were constantly reminding him that no one could speak in court until he acknowledged their presence.

Alistair cleared his throat stiffly. "I take it you wish to speak with the court?"

The Warden in front lifted hands to pull his heavy helmet off, and long dark hair was released in a fall down his back. His back? _Her_ back, Alistair realized. The warden dropped to one knee before him, bowing her head in a salute. The she lifted her face to his.

The world dropped out from below his feet, and Alistair regretted having stood up from his throne. When had his dais become so unlevel?

"Your Majesty." Ophelia clipped the syllables. "I am here representing the Ferelden Grey Warden holding of Highever."

Speech had become inexplicably complex, and he stumbled over the simple sounds of her name. "Ophelia?"

"Please, Sire." Her lips thinned. "I am called Warden Ophelia."

She may as well have pulled one of those pretty daggers from their place on her back and ran him through. At least, his chest was insistent that she had in fact done that. He glanced down, half expecting to see a hilt protruding from his ribs.

"Yes, I see. Um. Warden Ophelia." His tongue struggled with the unfamiliar title and he sat heavily back into the throne. "What can the court do for you? And for Maker's sake woman, please stand up."

"I require nothing of the court." She straightened slowly, obviously reluctant to violate the etiquette that demanded her head to be lower than the king's. "I require something of the King."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? Well, you should have just come out and said so, my dear. I am…at your disposal." She looked aghast as the courtiers began murmuring amongst themselves, scattered chuckles peppering the audience.

"Your Majesty," she began, and paused to look around. It was as if she had just noticed all the courtiers in attendance. "May we request a private audience?"

"The fearsome Grey Lady requests an audience with me? In…private?" Alistair drawled. Maker, what was wrong with him?! Alistair wanted to clap hands over his mouth to stop his glib tongue from prattling on. He was being an ass, and he knew it.

The courtiers tittered at the innuendo, and Ophelia's cheeks flamed but she stood resolute in her pride.

"I will not stand by idly while someone mocks me, even if that someone is the King of Fereles." She practically hissed the words, throwing them at his feet. "I came for honest discourse – I had hoped to receive the same from you. When you are ready to engage me in civil conversation I shall be waiting outside the gates." Ophelia spun on a heel and stalked towards the far doors, pounding armored heels into the fine woven rug as if it were to blame for her irritation.

"No – wait, Ophelia. Warden Ophelia. Oh, Maker's Breath." He swore at her retreating back, and beckoned to the nearest servant. "Prepare these Wardens rooms, and send someone out to get her, please. Show her to her room. For my own safety, I know well enough to let her cool down before we speak again."

He turned towards the rest of the assembly, which was still milling about in shock at the Warden's treatment of the King. "Court is over for today, ladies and gentleman." Alistair leaned an elbow on his throne and dropped his forehead onto his hand, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. Bloody Tuesdays.

The nobility shuffled slowly out of the great hall, leaving the remaining Wardens to stand awkwardly at the foot of the dais. Alistair raised his head to find one of the Wardens, a middle-aged Dalish elf, staring at him with a peculiar expression.

"Something I can help you with?" he said, a bit peevishly.

The Warden just shook his grizzled head slightly. "So many things about her make much more sense now that I've met you," he replied cryptically, before turning and making his own way out of the hall, the other Wardens close behind him.

Alistair sighed into the nearly empty hall. Bloody fucking Tuesdays.


	3. Chapter 3

_My thanks to finding_marie for making sure this doesn't completely suck. ;)_

**Chapter 3**

Ophelia paced the small but well furnished chamber one of the servants had eventually shown her to. Maker's Shorthairs, what was wrong with her? She shoved a hand furiously through her hair, making her already wild mane even more outrageous. Had she honestly just told off the King of Ferelden? In front of a full assembled court? Ophelia groaned. She had envisioned this whole afternoon going much smoother, but from the moment she had passed through the gates of the castle her brain seemed to have taken a backseat to her temper. Not that her brain was always the greatest decision maker either.

A soft knock sounded on her door, and she spun. Her heart was clawing its way up and out of her chest as the door slowly opened, and for one taffy-stretched moment she thought it would stop altogether. Her held breath exploded out in a rush when Brennan cautiously poked his graying head through the open doorway.

"Ophelia?" He asked, once he had determined that there were not going to be any foreign objects thrown in his direction. "I take it you've calmed down a bit?"

She felt her lips twist into a wry smile. "I suppose, as calm as I'm going to get given the circumstances. Come in Brennan, I'm not going to bite your head off." Letting out a sigh she unsheathed the short swords on her back, setting them on a small side table before dropping into a convenient chair. "I really made a mess of that didn't I?" she laughed joylessly.

"That's one way of putting it," he agreed dryly and took a seat across from her, his stark leather armor looking out of place against the fine velvet cushions. "But I don't think the King is the sort to hold a grudge. At least, he didn't seem to be. I'm sure you can smooth things over easily enough."

Ophelia shrugged and leaned her head back, staring at the ornate carvings along the ceiling. "No, I suppose he's not the type to take much of anything seriously."

Brennan watched her as she stared blankly up at the molding, seconds sliding into minutes without her saying anything. He had seen Ophelia under many circumstances, seen her stare down forces that would terrify most ordinary men, and never lose her cool. What was happening here? Was the Taint claiming her early?

He hesitantly broke the silence. "Ophelia, may I ask you a question?"

"What's on your mind?" she said, eyes closed now with her head cushioned in the deep plush of the wingback.

"You won't like it."

She raised one eyelid to peer at Brennan. "Just_ ask_, Brennan."

"Were you and the King lovers?"

Ophelia sat up so quickly she knocked a pillow to the floor, one of those tiny useless uncomfortable things that her mother had always called 'decorative'. Bending down to retrieve it, she stammered a reply that was lost beneath the chair.

Brennan narrowed his eyes, suspecting she had done that on purpose. "Sorry, what was that? I didn't hear you."

Ophelia cleared her throat as she straightened, smoothing the embroidered pillow on her lap. "I said, what would make you think that?"

Brennan made a soft noise in his throat and sat back, folding his hands across his stomach. "Just a hunch, I guess. I've never seen you act the way you did today, with anyone. Even the most difficult of recruits never seem to flap you. And yet, two minutes in a room with this man is enough to send you storming off like a toddler in a tantrum?" He leaned forward, forearms crossed on his knees. "I'm not stupid girl. The Ferelden king sent a message to the Wardens of Orlais, asking for some volunteers to help you rebuild the Wardens here as a personal favor to himself. He seemed concerned that you might come to some harm. Two nights after we arrived you rode into Highever, half dead with fever from that wound on your face and clinging to consciousness on horseback like a burr. It didn't take a genius to figure out you were running from something. Or someone."

Ophelia flinched and twisted the pillow tassels in her fingers. "Like a toddler in a tantrum?" Brennan nodded slowly. "Was I really _that_ bad?" Ophelia blew out a breath and raked two hands through her hair until it practically stood on end. "Maker's Sweat. I hate that man."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" Brennan asked, his dark eyes pinning her to the chair.

"No. No, I guess I don't." With a sharp frustrated motion she threw the pillow across the room, narrowly missing an antique Tevinter vase. "You're right Brennan, we were lovers. All through that awful time, when we were living on borrowed time as the darkspawn storm raged around us, I think he was the only thing that kept me sane. And I would have done anything for him. So when everything was over…" she trailed off into silence for a few moments before shaking herself from memory like a wet dog. "When it was over, I thought he might ask me to stay. But he asked me for duty, and I gave it to him. I have served Ferelden by serving the Wardens, because after him they were all I had left."

"I'm not sure I understand. Why would he –"

"Because of an heir," she broke in, before Brennan could vocalize the words she knew would flay her. "No children for two Grey Wardens, you know. Taint and all that."

"Ah." Brennan grunted. He sat quietly, mulling. "But then, why hasn't he married? If heirs are so important to him? That's usually a new king's first order of business, especially if there are inheritance questions, is it not? Impregnate some willing woman, preferably of noble blood. Three years seems a long time to wait. You can never predict if the horse you get on will throw you off."

Ophelia winced at the elf's blunt statements. "I don't know, Brennan. Why don't you ask the King himself?" she snapped back.

"Ask me what?" came a voice, as Alistair strode through the partially open doorway.

"Don't you knock? Surely they must teach even bastards manners?" Ophelia ground out, her face darkening.

Alistair backstepped to the entrance. "Knock knock," he said cheekily, unaffected by her venom, before continuing on into the room.

"Yup. That's my cue to go," Brennan said as he levered himself out of the seat. Ophelia widened her eyes at him in desperation, but the elf just grinned at her and bowed to Alistair. "Your Majesty, I take my leave. Ophelia…remember, toddler."

Alistair turned to watch the elf leave. "Interesting fellow, he is."

Ophelia remained in her chair, glaring up at Alistair in silence.

"You forgot to ask 'Who's there?'" he continued blithely.

"What?" She was startled out of her silence by the absurdity of his statement.

"I said, Knock knock." Alistair made his way to the chair recently vacated by Brennan and plopped down unceremoniously, smiling at her. "The standard response is 'Who's there?'"

"Always fun and games with you, isn't it Your Majesty?" she snarled.

Like flipping a switch, the grin was wiped off his face and his merry eyes went flat. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Throw a title at me like one of your sharp little daggers. You know my name, please use it."

"Is that a personal request or a royal decree?" Ophelia couldn't seem to stop the ugly words that continued to spill from her mouth.

"Well, I guess that's the great thing about being King, isn't it? Even a personal request could be considered royal decree." Alistair's flippant reply was belied by the tightening of his eyes.

Ophelia buried her face in a hand and tried to compose herself. She was being so unfair by blaming him for the scene earlier, and she knew it. After all, she was the one who had shown up unannounced, and the nasty part of her knew she'd done it on purpose. She had wanted to throw him off balance, to have the upper hand. She knew him well enough to not be surprised that his knee-jerk reaction had been sarcasm.

She allowed herself to take a hard look at Alistair. He looked much the same, perhaps a bit tired. Different, in a tailored tunic when she was used to him in heavy armor. Three years was not enough time to age anyone significantly, and she didn't know what she had expected to see – a tattoo on his forehead that said 'King Alistair'? She was struck with a childish petulance, that she should come away from their time together so scarred and he could look as if not one hair on his head had changed.

"I'm sorry." Ophelia finally replied, sagging back into her chair as the anger that had strengthened her faded as quickly as it had appeared. "You didn't deserve that." At his continued silence, she leaned forward across the low table between their chairs and lightly touched his hand. "Alistair."

He jumped at her touch, startled back into looking at her. "See? Was that so hard?" Grinning, he slipped back on the jovial Alistair mask.

She tried not to show how her heart lurched at his phrase, remembering a different time he had said that same phrase. Right after she had confessed her love…fat load of good it did her, in the end. Had she ever, truly, been that girl? It all seemed like so very long ago.

"So now that we've established that this is most definitely not a social call, why are you here Ophelia? Or should I say, Warden Ophelia?" he broke into her thoughts.

"No, no." She waved a hand. "I'm sorry about that too. I don't know what my problem is. Probably just nervous about being before all those people. Ophelia is just fine, of course." She sucked in a lungful of air that seemed to have gone stale. "As for why I'm here…"

He waited, one brow arched expectantly.

"I've received word that darkspawn are moving in the Korcari Wilds again."

Alistair shrugged, unsurprised. "When are they _not_ moving in the Korcari Wilds?"

"That was my response as well, until the messenger informed me that things are different this time. They aren't attacking villages. They seem uninterested in bloodshed. In fact, there's only one thing they seem to want."

"And what is that?" Alistair asked, concern sharpening his features.

"Children. They are kidnapping children, stealing them right from their beds and spiriting them away. No one can seem to find any trace of them."

Alistair's reply faltered. "The Korcari Wilds. You don't think…"

"Morrigan?" Ophelia stood and began circuiting the room. "I don't know. I have to admit that was my first thought. I don't know how or why, but after what I convinced you to do for her I can't rule anything out. Maker help me if I'm responsible for any of this."

"So you want to lead a group of Wardens into the Korcari Wilds? To try and find Morrigan?"

"I suppose so. Although I was not planning on a large force. If I am right and Morrigan is somehow behind all this, no army will be able to help us. She will fade back into the Wilds and we will never find her. We need finesse for this. A small group, just a handful of people who can slip in and around the area without notice." Ophelia turned towards Alistair. "I suppose I don't need much of anything from you. I just thought…well, it seemed like you should know. And I knew I was the only one who could tell you."

He sat in brooding silence for a few moments longer while she fidgeted with the carafe of wine left by an accommodating servant, too full of nervous energy to sit still long. She poured a small glass and sipped slowly, waiting for him to think through all she had revealed.

"I'm going with you." The words filled her ears like molten lead. She almost choked on a mouthful, and the burn of alcohol seared her nose.

"Are you alright? You're supposed to drink the wine, not breathe it." Alistair leaped up to pound her back as she spluttered.

"Yes, yes. I just thought that you said you were coming with me."

"I did."

"But why?" she finally managed, after a second round of sputtering had ceased.

"I don't know. It seems like I should? I can't leave you to clean this up on your own. After all, I'm more a part of this than you are." Alistair studied her face carefully, his polished walnut eyes full of memory and she was painfully aware of his hand still on her back, searing despite her thick leather cuirass. "That is…unless you'd really rather I didn't come."

The bands that had been closing around her chest for the last day tightened unbearably. "What about Ferelden? Who's going to rule while you're gone, or in case something happens to you? Nobody is going to like this."

"Arl Eamon can be regent in my stead. And frankly, Ophelia – when have I ever given a damn what other people think?" His sly smile was so genuine, so much like the old Alistair peeking through. She couldn't stop herself from smiling back at him.

Sweet Andraste, could she do this? Spend weeks with him back on the road and in the camps just like before? The prospect managed to both elate and terrify her. She stepped away from him, his hand sliding slowly from the small of her back. Knowing she must be mad to even contemplate the idea, Ophelia struggled with a tongue that had become parchment. "I suppose I can't very well stop you, can I? We meet in one week at South Reach."

Alistair's smile faded, and he closed his hand slowly into a loose fist. "Not quite the ringing endorsement I had hoped for. But, beggars can't be choosers, right? I'll leave the selection of our group up to you." He paused, looking at her with a somber expression she couldn't read and seemed about to add something else when he snapped his mouth shut and strode out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Ophelia pushed back the felt flap and stepped from her shaded tent into the bright clearing. This far south winter held the land tighter than Highever, and the watery sunlight flowed across ground that was dusted with snow.

"Any sign of them?" she called to Brennan, who was still puzzling with his own tent.

"Nope, nothing yet. Although I did see someone on horseback along the ridge a ways off. Someone should be here soon." Brennan struggled with his tent poles for a few minutes longer, and Ophelia smothered her laughter. "Maker's Balls! Are you sure you got all the poles in the right bag, woman?"

"Of course. I didn't seem to have nearly as much trouble," she teased him. "Perhaps you should put your campaign days behind you old man, if you can't seem to remember how a tent goes together."

"Careful. You may think I'm getting infirm, but believe me when I say I could still thrash you with one of these tent poles and the other hand tied behind my back."

Ophelia laughed and was about to take Brennan up on his offer when the clatter of hooves on the road pulled her attention away. The air solidified in her lungs, refusing to move in or out until she saw the blonde hair of the approaching man.

"Zevran!" she cried, smiling and striding over towards the elf. He leapt out of the saddle to stalk her with the lean agility of a cat, and she was struck with envy and despair at his easy grace. He was twice the rogue she would ever be.

"I came as soon as I got your message, mi corazon." he purred, and enfolded her in a tight embrace. He leaned her back over an arm in dramatic fashion, long blonde hair falling across his shoulders to brush her ears as he pressed a kiss to her slack mouth.

"You're incorrigible!" she scolded when he was finished scorching her lips. "Will you ever stop doing that?"

"Certainly," he answered with a wink and a waggle of eyebrows, helping her to stand again. "As soon as you relent to my charms and ravish me once again. The memory of your smooth flesh in the clear moonlight haunts my every dream."

"Stop it." She punched him in the arm as her face flamed and the elf danced back from her reach, a wicked grin spreading from one pointed ear to another. "That was _one_ time, and only after you and Brennan talked me into that awful drinking game after the last solstice. Don't think I'd ever sleep with you if I were sober."

"Oh, mi amor. These things you say!" Zevran clutched her hand to his chest and pouted. "Can you not see how you wound me?"

The ringing of horse tack and Brennan's hail cut through her annoyance. "Your Majesty."

A hot wave of guilt washed over her. Like the child caught in a cookie jar Ophelia snatched her hand back from Zevran and turned towards the road, where the king was still mounted on a large grey warhorse. Alistair stared down at the scene before him, eyes unreadable beneath his heavy helm and Ophelia had the sudden urge to stick her head in the nearest gopher hole. How long had he been there?

A heavy moment crept past, before Zevran broke the silence. "Well my my, aren't you just a vision of royal splendor? Being a king suits you, Alistair."

Alistair snapped from his lull and scrambled down the shoulder of his large horse, nodding a greeting. "Ophelia, Brennan. Zevran, I see _you_ haven't changed a bit." He lifted off his helm and grabbed the reigns of his horse in a free hand. "If anyone needs me, I'll just be over there, setting up my tent before it gets dark." Alistair walked his horse to the far side of the camp and began unloading wooden dowels and lengths of canvas from a large pack on the back of his saddle, deftly setting them into the basic frame of a small shelter.

"Let me know if I can assist you setting up the royal tent, Your Majesty." Zevran offered, his innocent tone and expression fooling no one.

Alistair glanced up from the jumble of poles and cloth. "No, no help necessary. I think I can handle this."

"I'm sure you can. After all, you _handled_ it all by yourself all those times before, did you not? A shame you won't accept any assistance." Zevran leered a bit at Alistair's bemused expression, before turning back towards Ophelia. "And what about me, Ophelia? Shall I set up my tent as well, or will this be the excursion on which you finally allow me to share yours?" Zevran pitched his voice a great deal louder than necessary.

The sharp crack of snapping wood pulled her eyes across camp, to where Alistair stood glaring down at a broken tent pole clutched in his white-knuckled fists. With a soft growl he tossed the offending pieces to the ground and swept up a small hatchet.

"I'll be back. Need to…go cut a new pole." He threw over his shoulder as he faded into the woods surrounding camp.

Ophelia rounded on Zev, spearing him with a glower. "Really Zev…what's gotten into you?"

He backed slowly away, hands raised defensively and laughing. "Ah my sweet, I just cannot resist pushing those big red buttons of his, you know this. And there are two things I can do to get Alistair worked up like nothing else - flirting with him, and flirting with you."

Ophelia's narrowed gaze fell on the woods, where she could just pick out the glint of Alistair's retreating armor crashing through the trees. "I'm not so sure about that second one, Zev."

"We shall see, my flower. We shall see." Zev reached out to tap her nose gently, teeth bared in a flash that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, since I seem to be so rudely denied the pleasure of cohabitation with you yet again, I had best get to setting up my own camp as well." The lithe elf sauntered towards his own packs and busied himself with his own gear.

Ophelia felt a headache coming on and rolled her head on her shoulders, trying to relieve the tension. Maker, why had she thought this would work out? This was definitely on the fast track to Worst Idea of All Time.

Brennan's chuckle stirred her from her thoughts as he drew closer. "Well, you warned me this mission would be dangerous. I just never realized that the worst danger would come from within our own group."

"What are you talking about?" She eyed him suspiciously.

"Oh please Ophelia, you're not dumb. Those two are going to be at each others throats until they get this settled."

"I don't think I'm following you. And I definitely don't understand what nug crawled up their arses and died. They've traveled together for ages without any problems. I don't know why Zev is being such an instigator, or Alistair is so moody." She paused thoughtfully. "Well ok…Zev's always been an impossible flirt."

"Wake up girl. They both obviously feel they have some unfinished business with you. I'm old, but I'm not blind."

"So what are you suggesting, that this whole scene was some esoteric male territory thing?" A squall gathered in her grey eyes. "Should I just let them start peeing on me like a prized tree?"

"You know, I wouldn't be so uppity. Some people pay good money for that in Denerim." Brennan chortled at Ophelia's slackjawed look of horror before straightening and poking her firmly on the sternum. "Mark my words. Nothing good is going to come of this."

"But I'm not interested. I mean, I'm not _choosing_ one of them. And Alistair couldn't possibly…Oh Maker's Balls, this isn't some kind of contest Brennan."

"Try telling that to them," he said grimly, with a jerk of his thumb over a shoulder. "What in Andraste's name made you think that inviting them both would be a good idea? Zevran's been sniffing about since that solstice night last year, and you admitted to me that you and Alistair have history. History makes any man possessive."

Ophelia growled in exasperation. "I didn't intend to, Brennan! I sent word to Zevran first because he's game for anything and the best damn rogue I know, better than myself. I never expected Alistair to come along."

'Well, you've got them. And now what are you going to do with them?"

"I don't know!" The words barked out in a frustrated shout before she reigned in her temper. " What do you do with two men caught in a pissing contest? Hand them both a measuring stick? You're a man, what do you suggest Brennan?"

He shrugged helplessly. "Either hang the OPEN or the CLOSED sign. I don't think much short of brutal honesty will get through to those two. And if honesty fails, you're pretty good with a knife."

* * *

They were splitting a loaf of rough bread and some hard grana cheese in the fading daylight when Alistair finally returned, sweating beneath a tall armload of pine gnarls.

"Figured I'd make myself useful while I was out in the woods," he grunted, releasing the stack into a clattering pile near the center of camp.

"This country…" Zevran shook his head and tsked. "Where a King will carry firewood. No refinement to be found."

"Forget it, Zevran." Alistair shook his head and began arranging smaller twigs into the beginnings of a campfire. "You're going to have to work harder to annoy me than that. I've been just Alistair far longer than I've been king, and carrying firewood was never too low for me then. Perhaps you should try it next time - it might put some muscles on that lanky frame of yours."

Zevran laughed around a bite of cheese. "Touché, amigo. Of course, I've never worried too much. I have both the boat and the ocean going for me, as they say. A bit of extra muscle wouldn't make much difference."

Alistair blinked. "What do boats and the ocean have to do with firewood?"

Brennan snorted into his mug of ale, and Ophelia rolled her eyes. "Enough, Zevran. I think it's time we got serious here. Brennan, if you would be so kind?"

Brennan nodded, and with a quick flick of the wrist the kindling roared into flames as Alistair scrambled backwards with a hurled curse.

"You know exactly why we're out here. Children are disappearing from areas surrounding the Korcari Wilds." Three heads nodded in unison. "As you may have guessed though, this won't be a grand battle or campaign. What we are doing requires more finesse, and with that in mind I have put together this group. Myself and Zevran, two accomplished rogues. Brennan, my Senior Grey Warden from Highever and a damn fine mage. And Alistair, who managed to invite himself but should still be the best warrior I have yet to fight beside. "

She broke off and stared at the jumping blaze for a moment, collecting thoughts. "You have no doubt heard that Alistair and I are the only Grey Wardens to survive the demise of an Archdemon. Have you not wondered how we accomplished that? The night before the great fight, we were approached by one of our group, a Witch of the Wild named Morrigan. She offered us a choice – kill the archdemon and sacrifice one of ourselves, or agree to impregnate her and allow the soul of an Old God pass into the forming child. Seeing as how neither of us wanted to die, Alistair stepped up. My theory is that these disappearing children may have something to do with that. We need to find Morrigan and assess the threat she poses, and the child with her."

Zevran turned towards Alistair, all signs of humor chased from his pale face. "I am speechless. Our chantry mouse conquered the swamp witch? I am not sure whether I should be horrified or impressed."

Alistair grimaced. "Frankly I'd rather not talk about it. I mean, I thought the nightmares about the _darkspawn_ were bad."

Zevran opened his mouth to continue picking at Alistair's scabs when Ophelia's flinch caught his eye. Alistair had slept with Morrigan? While he and Ophelia were involved? The king's flippant comment must have cut her deeply, and Zevran didn't have the heart to push the issue.

"You did what?" Brennan's dry whisper carried over the crackling fire. "How could you have been so stupid girl? Do you have any idea what you may have created?!"

Ophelia dropped her face into her hands, Brennan's accusatory tone flaying her. "No. I don't know what was created, and I didn't care at the time. I had no choice, Brennan!"

"Of course you did!" He exploded, his face twisting. "You choose what every Grey Warden before you has chosen! In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, _sacrifice_. Such cowardice shames the Grey Wardens." He spat the words at her feet, and Ophelia shriveled.

"Hold up, old man." Alistair stood, planting himself between Brennan and Ophelia. "It wasn't just her, you know. I did this too. In fact, technically this whole thing is my responsibility. After all, she obviously neglects the necessary parts to impregnate anyone."

"It's alright, Alistair." She motioned for him to sit. His gaze bounced restlessly between Brennan and Ophelia before he reluctantly backed down. "Brennan is right, I did have a choice. There's _always_ a choice. But Brennan, there was just the two of us. I thought I was doing the right thing for Ferelden, by agreeing to Morrigan's offer. I knew Alistair well enough to realize that there was no way he would let me sacrifice myself. All that Chantry rot about nobility and Grey Warden talk of sacrifice have taken quite a hold on him, you see. So short of knocking him out the day of the battle, this was the only way I could see to help Ferelden. Our country needed more than just an archdemon killed. She needed a King as well."

"Perhaps." Brennan replied, slightly mollified. He eyed Alistair narrowly for a moment. "I could believe he'd do a damn fool thing like that."

Alistiar shot him a wounded look. "I don't think I like what you're implying."

"Right. Well…" Brennan hoisted himself up, tightly reigned temper in each limb, and brushed stray grass from his legs. "I think I'm going to turn in. We've got a long trip ahead of us – children to rescue, a Witch of the Wild to track, and a potential demonspawn hellchild to eradicate. Good night, everyone."

"I'll take first watch." Ophelia offered. There was no way she was sleeping any time soon.

The other two drifted towards their own tents as she pulled up a convenient log, setting herself closer to the fire in anticipation of a long chill evening. Ophelia loosened the straps of her armor slightly and did her best to relax. She stared into the flames, allowing the twisting patterns to pull most of her stress sparking and smoking into the night sky.

It wasn't long before a head stuck itself out a tent flap, pale hair faded to white in the moonlight. "It is so cold in this tent, all alone." Zevran wailed petulantly. "Are you sure I cannot sleep with you tonight, my sweet?"

A crash followed by muffled cursing came from Alistair's tent and she contemplated throwing a dagger at Zevran's head. Knowing he'd be able to dodge it easily and reluctant to lose a knife in the dark, she settled instead for a convenient rock, slinging it with a deadly accuracy that the elf managed to duck. With a cheeky grin and a kiss of his fingertips he withdrew into his tent again and she was left to shake her head, a smile tugging at her reluctant mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thanks to finding_marie for ensuring this doesn't completely suck. I realize I may be taking some liberties with the epilogues here but hey - it's my story now. Sorry for the delay on this chapter, it won't happen again. *hides*_

* * *

"Can I talk to you?"

The words startled her out of a firelit reverie, and she looked up to find Alistair standing in the shadows behind her, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a troubled schoolboy. Some sentry she was turning out to be this evening, if _Alistair_ could manage to sneak up on her.

"No one's never been able to stop you from talking before." She softened the barb with an arched brow, but scooted over on the rough log a bit to allow him room. Alistair dropped to a seat beside her, almost graceful without his bulky armor, and she couldn't stop watching him. It was a strange and rare thing to see Alistair in plain clothing.

"I suppose that's true. The Sisters of the Chantry always said you should stick with what you're good at." He tossed another knot of pine onto the sleeping fire, flames leaping up to cast his face into sharp relief and making his features unreadable as he searched the flames for courage. "Ophelia, since you showed up a week ago I've been trying to figure out how to say this. I can't seem to come up with anything eloquent or witty so I'll have to settle for the bald truth." He paused, before drawing a deep breath to charge ahead. "I know this may come across as strange, or too little too late but…I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. For the way things played out three years ago. I did what I thought was the right thing at the time and the right thing blew up in my face."

Ophelia waited, hoping her heart would stop trying to punch a hole through her chest. She didn't trust herself with speech at the moment, and settled for a graceless bob of the head. Alistair pinned her with eyes shadowed by the wavering flames, dim sockets she was unable to make out.

"I was so worried about you, you know. Wynne came rushing in to tell me that you were gone, your bed in the infirmary still warm, and no one could find a trace of you or Dog. It wasn't until someone noticed the missing horse we realized you had left of your own free will and stopped searching for intruders." He stopped, and when he started again his voice sounded tight, strangled. "Do you know what that was like? For three years, _three years,_ there was no word from you. Not even a quick note to say 'Hey, how are you? I'm not dead. You can stop worrying.' Nothing but the cold monthly reports I received from the Grey Wardens to let me know you were still alive." He picked absently at a moss-furred section of bark alongside his thigh, avoiding her eyes. "I think your leaving broke something in Wynne. She was never quite the same after the effort it took to heal you of the archdemon wounds, and it wasn't long afterwards that she simply…faded."

Ophelia had known that Wynne must have passed. There was no way that three years could have gone by without her trying to contact Ophelia if it were otherwise. Still, to have the knowledge confirmed hurt Ophelia more than she had expected it could. She swallowed past the brambles of grief that were clambering up her throat and forced a rasping reply. "I regret that I wasn't able to see her again. But you didn't really expect me to stay, did you? To watch you with someone else? You must thing credit me with greater strength than I possess. Or you truly are an idiot."

Alistair shrugged, his wry smile a slash of white in the firelight. "I've always been both in awe of your strength, _and_ a complete ignoramus."

She stared down at her hands, white and webbed with calluses and so frail in the pale light, like crumpled eggshells in her lap. "I couldn't have stayed Alistair. You told me that I was not Queen material, and that you wanted me to rebuild the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. I think you made it quite clear that I was more useful to you as a warrior than as a woman. And now I can understand that you were right. Because of me, the Grey Wardens have returned in force to Ferelden. This is a far greater service for me to perform than simply making babies. I'm glad you had the foresight I lacked at the time, to recognize what was best for Ferelden."

"What was best for Ferelden is not necessarily what was best for me. But then that is the plight of a King, no? Duty above all else. No matter the cost." The bitterness in his voice stung the back of her tongue.

Words flocked inside her head, a dizzying cloud of thoughts that circled so swiftly she was unable to pluck just one from the mass. She reached up to rub at her stinging scar, seeking composure in the familiar pain. "Apology accepted, Alistair. I have neither the energy or the interest to remain angry with you for things that cannot be changed."

Alistair nodded slowly in agreement, poking absently at the fire with a nearby stick for some minutes as they lapsed into an uneasy silence, lost in their own thoughts.

"So…you and Zevran?" Alistair broke in. He tried for glib and failed miserably, his voice almost cracking.

She heaved a sigh, and shot him a sideways glance. "Are you sure you want to have this conversation?" He nodded, unspoken words held carefully in his mouth. "Honestly Alistair – I was dumped, not dead."

He gaped at her. "What is that supposed to mean? Were you guys…I mean, did you…?"

"Good night, Alistair." She got up from the log and shuffled towards her tent, her exhaustion more than physical. "I volunteer you for the next watch."

****

In her nightmares, the darkspawn gibbered and howled and boiled in the depths of the earth, but they had never turned their yellow eyes toward her, never acknowledged her presence in their midst. This night was different – the darkspawn of her dreams drew ever closer to her, their hot breath fetid in her face as they reached impossibly long arms towards her, licking her cheeks and eyelids with their rough tongues as she was pinned to the ground by the mass of their bodies. Without knife or sword in her dreamworld Ophelia drew breath for the oldest of female weapons, a scream that ripped through the night and shredded her sleep.

Her tent was suddenly alive, as Alistair came crashing through the flap. The weight on her chest finally lifted and the shadows in her tent drew into a familiar snarling shape as Alistair brandished his longsword.

"Dog!" Ophelia cried and threw back the covers of her cot as she sat up. The Mabari's head snapped to attention, focus shifting from Alistair to his mistress with a look of drooling, abject adoration. He bounded back to crouch at her side, a wriggling mass of mansized dogflesh.

"Bad boy!" she scolded, and his ears drooped, stubby tail thumping the ground slowly. "What are you doing here? I told you to _stay_ in Highever."

Alistair lowered his sword and remembered how to breathe. "Oh." He dropped the word like a sour cherry. "It's _you_. I thought I smelled wet dog."

Dog swept his ears back and shot Ophelia a Look.

"What?" She shrugged and frowned at his whine. "I don't have to explain him to you. _You_ aren't even supposed to be here."

Dog whined again and peered up at Ophelia, doing his burly best to look sad and puppy-eyed.

"Oh, alright! Get up here." She gripped the sides of the cot as it swayed unsteadily, Dog's mass threatening to overbalance the small bed as he leapt up. He settled himself into a much smaller space than anything his size should have the ability to occupy at the end of her cot. "You drool on my blankets though and it's back home with you."

Dog barked once, a happy sound, and buried his head back onto his forepaws beneath her feet.

"Just what I needed – another male inviting themselves along." Her pointed glower was split between the two. Dog remained blissfully unaware but the man got the hint.

"Right. I'll just be getting back to my watch now. Glad to see you're not dying or anything." With that, Alistair beat a hasty retreat out the tent, feeling Ophelia's glare clinging between his shoulderblades like a burr.

****

Brennan knew it was going to be a rough day the moment his breakfast loaf sprouted a shaft and feathers as he was lifting it to his mouth. He blinked at the offending hunk of bread until his groggy brain put two and two together; that his meal had been made a pincushion and that he should not be sitting upright in plain view at the center of camp. His strangled shout as he flailed off the log he had been seated on drew the rest of his companions running from their own morning rituals to squint in the thin morning light. Lightning and fire sparked from his fingertips as Brennan swept around in the direction the arrow had come, the smell of ozone and charred bread running claws down the back of Ophelia's throat.

She nodded towards Zevran who was already in motion, and as one they dropped into a steady crouch. She reached out with that not-magic sense of hers, grabbing a double fistful of reality and _pulling_ it ever so slightly sideways until she was little more than a shadow in the eyes of their attackers, and took a moment to glance around unnoticed. Seven men surrounded the camp, bandits that had fallen on hard times. They had the desperate look of a pack of city dogs, all whipcord hunger and hollow eyes.

She crept around to the edge of the camp as the rest of her group squared off, circling behind one of the men where he stood in the shadows of the tree line. The soft _snick_ of her dirk as it left the sheath on her back caused him to flinch and raise his own sword, but before he could finish the motion Ophelia had an edge to his neck.

"Don't move," she hissed in his ear, and felt his bobbing throat press against the blade in her hand.

"Drop your weapons, and I will not harm this man! You will be free to leave with your lives!" She shouted into the still clearing. Only a flicker of motion behind the nearest bandit told her than Zevran was out in the woods as well. Brennan was across the camp eyeballing one bandit, spinning the barely restrained birth of a fireball in his hands, and Alistair and Dog were spread between she and Brennan.

Dog had one of the men backed up against a tree, his deep growl carrying across camp. Alistair had his sword and shield out, although in his haste he hadn't managed to put on his helmet. He was squared off against two other bandits, dirty fighters by the look of them. Ophelia couldn't loosen the hard knot of dread in her belly. She knew full well how quickly and efficiently a small knife like theirs could find the chinks in Alistair's heavy armor, and while Brennan knew some spells he was no healer.

That made six bandits accounted for. Where was the seventh? The answer came in the form of another arrow, whistling beneath her jaw and grazing the back of the hand held to the bandit's throat before burying itself in a nearby trunk. Frantically she looked around for the seventh man and spotted him, halfway up a nearby tree perched on a thick swaying branch. He smiled grimly, a spash of white across his shadowed face, and notched another arrow to his string, aiming squarely at her chest.

She had enough time to twist reactively as she heard the twang of a bowstring release, feeling the impact against her own armor as feathers sprang from her hostage's chest. His limp body fell from her grasp as all hell broke loose in the clearing. She vaguely heard the baying of Dog devolve into snarling cracks, the gurgling cry of Zevran's victim as he bled his life out, the tactile explosion of Brennan's fireball echoing inside her skull. The bowman took careful aim again and she followed his line of sight, terror sinking its claws deep into her gut.

Alistiar.

He was finished with his two bandits, wading through the pile of limbs he had made short work of, and yelling in her direction. The dawning light clearly highlighted his bare head, and she could see the bandit hold his breath to aim, putting the last bit of tension on the string he would need to send it straight through the King's skull. Fear drew shivering patterns down her back and she reached desperately to throw her own dagger at the bowman, anything that might buy her a few moments extra, when Zevran appeared at her elbow.

"Up!" He cried, and cupped his bloodied hands at knee level. Nodding, Ophelia placed one bare foot into his hands and with a deceptively strong heave she was airborne, her body somersaulting in the way he had trained her last summer. She landed lightly alongside the bowman, his jaw slack in surprise. Before he had time to react, Ophelia was behind him, one dirk merrily separating his throat from his jugular. The gouting blood arced out, covering her and Zevran in great sheets of crimson before she shoved the body off the branch to thud amidst the rest of her companions where they had gathered below the tree.

They all stared up, and she knew she must cut a strange figure. Like a feral woman, raised by wolves amongst the forest trees. She was barely dressed, without shoes or a helmet, her hair in a wild mane around her head, and she was _covered_ in blood. The fierce grin she couldn't seem to wipe off her face didn't help either. Brennan was looking at her like she had grown a second head. Zevran practically glowed with pride, and she knew she would never hear the end of how clever it had been of him to suggest he teach her some of his skills. Dog reared up on the trunk, barking and obviously unhappy at his mistress' impression of a squirrel.

Alistair was gazing up at her, his brown eyes flattened under an expression she couldn't read.

'What?" she said irritably, crossing her bloodslicked arms to glare down at the four of them. "Why are you all looking at me like I have grown a second head?"

Alistair seemed to shake himself, and she knew by the mischief creeping back into his grin she was not going to like what he said next.

"You know we can all see your smallclothes from down here, right?"

Fire flooded her face as she cursed her skirted armor and her bad position. Crouching down would only make it worse, and she was too high up to jump. She stood, frozen in mortification as she dithered about how to end the peepshow. She settled for dignified anger, stiffening her spine and glaring down at them imperiously where they were all roaring in laughter. "Very funny. Want to help a girl down now?" The problem solved itself as she misstepped on the slick branch, losing her footing. She felt the horizon tilt away from her as she fell. Years of training drilled into her very bones helped her to twist like a cat mid-air, landing on all fours in a tight crouch on the grass.

Brennan choked on a laugh. "Graceful."

"Ophelia, I'm so sorry!" Alistair sputtered. "I didn't mean for you to fall. Look, we couldn't really see them. Well, maybe a bit. I mean, only a little bit. They're red, aren't they? I mean...forget I said that, they most definitely were not red. Not a bit of red to be found." He wilted. "Look, I'm just going to shut up now. I hope you're OK."

"What happened, did being King suck out what little brains you had left after spending months as our resident punching bag?" She rounded on him, her anger and fear from earlier erupting. "What made you think you could go into a fight without your helmet? Are you suicidal?" She marched over and pushed him in the chest, her bloody fingers leaving red dots on the shining breastplate.

"Well, _you_ weren't wearing a helmet! You're not even wearing _shoes_! How in the Maker's name do you have the right to yell at me?"

"Because you're the bloody King of Ferelden! You fight smart, or you stay behind. You're not expendable, Alistair!" She was livid, and hurled the words in his face.

'Well, neither are you," he said softly as he held her gaze, and Ophelia felt her anger dry up and blow away. She glared at him halfheartedly for a moment longer.

"I'm going to get cleaned up," she ground out and stalked towards the nearby stream, chin high as she pretended not to notice the three men dissolving into raucous laughter behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks to my beta, finding_marie, for making sure I don't subject any of you to purple prose._

**Chapter 6**

The land around them was changing, as they ventured further south. The dry scrubby forests of the Hinterlands gave way to softer ground and damp, mossy trees. Ophelia was unsure how a land that seemed so much wetter could still be colder, and she dreaded camp that night. It didn't seem as if she had been dry for days. She led their small group, her dun gelding eating up the rough road with his long loping gait with Dog trotting alongside her, dashing off every so often to chase an errant squirrel or bird before returning. Behind her Alistair sang a silly song softly, something about a barmaid and a nug, and she smiled to herself. Zevran was behind him, and Brennan followed in the rear. He had been avoiding her since the revelation about their defeat of the archdemon, and the distance between them felt far greater than the yards between their horses.

Alistair pulled up alongside Ophelia, his song dying away. "You've been very quiet, these last few miles."

She stirred from silence, watching as her gelding's ears flicked back to catch her voice. "Yes, I suppose I have. Just thinking about where we're going. And what we might be facing."

His voice was pitched low when he spoke again, and she strained to hear it. "Do you really think that Morrigan is out there? With the child?"

Opehlia shrugged. "I don't know Alistair. I hope not. I like to imagine that she fled west, to Orlais or beyond, with a perfectly normal baby in tow and no evil plans in mind. But with our luck, we should know that's not the case." She looked away, her voice a rough whisper. "Do you think you could do it? If we have to, could you kill your own child?"

The color bled from Alistair's face, emotions roiling in his eyes. "I have been trying not to think about it. I wonder sometimes...does it look like me?" A spun-glass silence tangled in the air between them, brittle and dangerous. She waited for him to thread his way through it. "But if the situation arises, yes. I think I could. Being king the last three years has taught me that my duty is to protect my country, regardless of my own feelings." At Ophelia's pained smile he reached out across the space between their horses, gently clasping her hand as he held her gaze. "But that still doesn't make it any easier."

"No, it doesn't. I just pray that the Maker will lend us the strength to do what needs to be done, if that is the case."

"I have no concerns about your strength, Ophelia. It's myself I worry about. I can barely summon the nerve to open a closet at night. You, my dear lady, are a slayer of demons."

She felt a reluctant smile plucking her lips at his irreverent tone and she pulled her hand away. "Were you always this much of a flatterer? Or has the court taught you this?"

"And were you always this much of a skeptic?" He laughed at her frown. "Being King has taught me many things. Such as...what to do with that second fork they always put next to your dinner plate. That socks are supposed to be changed daily. Who'd have known? Seems like a lot of wasted laundry to me. And most importantly,the proper way to intimidate servants which, believe me, is no small feat considering most of them scare the pants off me. There is one cook in the kitchen who is the closest thing to an ogre I've seen since the Blight. I never know whether I should compliment her cooking or climb up her back and hack her head off."

Ophelia threw her head back, her laughter winging through the trees and drawing Dog's curious glance.

"Ah." Alistair said softly, a small smile whispering around his eyes. "So she's not gone. Only hiding."

"Who?" Ophelia asked through the scraps of her humor, confused.

"The Ophelia I used to know."

Her face fell. "I prefer to think she is gone. And good riddance. She was always too much of an idealist anyways."

Alistair made a soft noise of dissent and watched her with hooded eyes until she felt like squirming.

Zevran rode up on her other side, an unusual gravity shadowing his eyes as he looked between the two Wardens. "I think we may have found our lodgings for the night."

Ahead was a small village, little more than an inn for travelers and a few small houses huddled around it. Above the doorway hung a faded sign painted with a griffin and the words 'The Grey Mount'. Ophelia took this as a good omen and four of them rode up to the door of the inn, halting as a small towheaded boy came tumbling out the door.

'Evening." He skidded to a halt before them and tugged on his forelock in quick salute. "Can I take your horses for you?"

"Certainly," Ophelia slid wearily down the shoulder of her horse, taking a moment to steady herself as she felt the ground continue to sway. She had always felt that being on horseback all day was worse than a boat.

"My da is inside. He's the keeper of this inn. If you need a room for the night we have plenty available, this time of year. Not much travel going on."

Ophelia glanced up at the steel grey sky, feeling the chill bite of winter through her thick cured leather. "I think that sounds like a fine idea. Thank you." She handed the small boy a few coppers and he grinned, lost teeth creating gaps that she couldn't help but smile back at. The boy gathered up the reins of their horses, two in each hand, and began slowly leading the exhausted animals towards a small stable behind the inn. The four headed inside, stamping a light dusting of snow and mud off their boots and blinking as their eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The yeasty smell of brewing beer and the round greasy scent of sausages trailed flirtatious fingers down their throats, setting more than one belly rumbling. A small fire winked inside a stone hearth, radiating warmth and the only light besides the thin sunlight that trickled through the cheap glass windows. This late in the year they were the only patrons inside the cramped room.

"'Ey. No animals allowed inside the inn. Your dog can stay in the stable with the horses." A gruff voice called from behind the bar, and Ophelia turned to see a large man wiping down the scuffed oaken counter, a rag clutched in one beefy hand and the other pointing at Dog. Dog looked at her quizzically and she shrugged. He picked his way across the sanded wood floor, pausing a moment at the base of the heavy bar while the innkeeper spluttered, his face turning red with anger. "I said no ani-"

His protest was cut off as Dog reared up, placing his front paws on the edge of the counter and staring intently at the barkeeper, his canine head even with the man's and a low growl trickling from his throat.

"He's a Mabari warhound. Would you care to try and make him sleep outside?" Ophelia said mildly with an arched brow.

"Er. No. My apologies, lady. I didn't realize...is he _tasting _me?"the innkeepers voice ended in a squeak as Dog licked the man's face, his mouth agape in a doggy grin. The innkeeper jumped as Dog barked, and the wagging of his stubby tail shook his whole body, leaving gouges where his nails dug into the bartop.

"Oh no, he likes you." Ophelia smothered a smile as the innkeeper looked ill. "The name is Ophelia. We would like to see about some rooms for the night."

The innkeeper cocked his head. "Name's Dougal. Ophelia, eh?" He pursed his lips thoughtfully, looking between her, her scar, and the Mabari. "Only one woman I've ever heard of who had a Mabari, and she had that same name. You're not..._that_ Ophelia are you?"

"That depends on which Ophelia you might be talking about." She evaded.

"Andraste's Blood. The Grey Lady? Here in my inn?" Dougal looked around nervously, swiping at an errant ring mark on the countertop. "Please forgive my rudeness, Lady. And who are your companions?"

She turned to introduce them, gesturing at each in turn. "This is Zevran, a friend. Warden Brennan, and," she hesitated a moment at Alistair's widened eyes. "Warden Alistair." Alistair let out a small breath of relief at her choice of titles.

"Pleased to meet you." Dougal bobbed his head in greeting. "I am sorry to say that I only have three rooms to rent. We are a rather small inn, you see."

"Not a problem," Zevran cut in smoothly. "Brennan takes one, Alistair the other, and Ophelia and I can share."

"Absolutely not!" Alistair exploded. "Ophelia has a room, I'll take another, and you and Brennan can share."

Brennan growled. "What, you think just because we're both elves we should share a room? He annoys the hell out of me."

At his words, Zevran pouted. "Stabbed in the back by my own kind. And here I thought were were getting along so well too...I was beginning to think you were cute, in a prickly sort of way."

Brennan gaped at Zevran in horrified silence, and Ophelia broke in, barely restrained laughter trembling her voice. "Ok, enough. I'll share my room with Dog, Brennan you can have one to yourself. Alistair and Zevran can share the last room, since they know each other."

Zevran waggled his brows suggestively at Alistair. "I must admit to not knowing Alistair as well as I would like though. Perhaps this will be my chance to remedy that."

Alistair glared daggers at her, although his voice lacked true venom. "I hate you."

She smiled sweetly at him before digging coins out of her purse and placing them on the counter, where Dougal was watching the entire exchange with a bemused expression. "Three rooms, Dougal. And I think we could all use a hot meal and a bath, if that is possible."

"Certainly." Dougal bobbed his head, pocketing the coins. "I'll have my wife and daughter get right on it." He hesitated a moment, twisting his hands in the apron at his waist. "May I ask why The Grey Lady is here, so far south of Highever? Does it have anything to do with the missing children around these parts?" The hope shining in his eyes as he looked over their small group was a fist in her guts.

"Yes, Dougal. We are here to see if we can help." The words were sawdust in her mouth, acrid and dry with shame.

"That's good, milady. That's real good to hear." His face broke into a relieved smile, and his shoulders sagged slightly. "I've got me a cousin, in the village a bit further south of here, Ardenwalde. His little girl..." Dougal's face screwed and he struggled for a moment before regaining his composure. "She's one of the missing. Just a tiny mite too, only four years old. What would the darkspawn want with someone like her? It just doesn't make sense." His eyes bored into Ophelia's, confusion and futile anger etching his brow.

"I wish I knew, Dougal." Ophelia replied softly, guilt pressing down like a hand on her head. How many stories like this would there be? How much innocent blood was potentially on her hands? Exhaustion tugged at her limbs, dragging her like a child with a toy. "If you would show me the room now, please."

Dougal nodded, and she trudged wearily behind the rotund man, ready for the first dry bed she'd had in days.

****

Alistair sighed and sank further into the bath. Perhaps he was going a bit soft, as King, since all he could think about was how the small tub could hardly compare to his bathing room at the castle, but he was willing to take anything warm at this point. He'd been nothing but damp and cold for the last two days, ever since they'd come out of the Hinterlands. The warm water lapped softly at his chest and he reclined back, enjoying a few minutes of quiet solitude.

Solitude that was brought to a crashing end as Zevran stalked into the room.

"Zevran!" Alistair shot up before realizing he was dangerously close to giving the elf a show, and quickly sank back into the water, scrunching as much of his body below the surface as he could and covering himself with his hands. "I thought you were eating downstairs." He squinted at the elf, suspicion in his eyes. "You haven't come up about that 'knowing me better' thing, have you? Because I can promise you, as long as you pee standing up I'll never be interested."

"Hardly, Alistair. Although I'm glad to hear you still feel that way. I do so love a challenge." Zevran leaned up against the small table near the foot of the tub with folded arms and smirked at Alistair's discomfort.

"Do you really...uh...have to stand _right_ there?" Alistair stammered. He had to fight his natural instinct to gesture, lest his royal bits be put up for examination.

Zevran shrugged, a languid roll of shoulders. "Seems as good a place as any, considering I'm planning on talking to you."

"Right now?" Alistair squeaked.

He began reaching for a nearby towel, only to have it plucked away by Zevran's swift hands. "Ah ah, Alistair. I think I like you right where you are, while we have our little discussion. I find a little humility breeds attentiveness." Zevran's mouth curled in a movement that was less of a smile and more the baring of teeth.

"And what is it that is so bloody important for us to talk about?" The words were hot with Alistair's frustrated ire.

"Ophelia." Zevran tossed the name like a rock into Alistair's pool of anger.

"Oh." He slumped back into the tub, and watched Zevran warily. "What about her?"

"I've been watching the both of you. I come with a...warning, of sorts. I consider her an important person, and I care about her welfare." Zevran withdrew a flechette from some secret place on his person and began to idly pick at his fingernails with the sharp point.

"I wasn't aware you had become so close with her, frankly." Alistair retorted. His envy at the elf's freedom to see her over the past three years was a whetstone, sharpening his words.

"For some time, Brennan and I were all that she had. I stopped in Highever, when I could." Zevran halted, and when he spoke again his voice was rough with suppressed emotion. "You know that she came to me, don't you? A year ago, after she and Brennan and I celebrated the solstice a bit too hard. She never drinks, but that night she did. And later, she knocked on my door. _She_ came to _me_."

The intensity of his last words sent tension clambered into the space between them, thick ropey vines that knotted around Alistair's midsection. He opened his mouth to say something, _anything_, and the echoes of Zevran's statement spilled in, washing away his power of speech.

Zevran began rolling the flechette, weaving the deadly little dart between his fingers. He locked eyes with Alistair, and the emptiness in them frosted Alistair's nerves with fear. "And then I held her as she cried afterwards. I can tell you now that if you had been anywhere nearby, that night would have been the last night of your life. And I would have felt no remorse at killing you despite our friendship, because I know that you were the reason for her tears even if she won't admit it."

"I never meant-" Alistair's broken whisper was chopped short by the motion of Zevran's hand.

"She's never been the same since you. I suppose her men cannot tell the difference, all the Warden's she had exiled herself with in Highever. They do not know her they way that we do. But she is like a bird now, with a broken wing that never set quite right. Ophelia may still fly, but she never soars the way she once did. And I could have - _would still - _cheerfully kill you for that."

Zevran pushed away from the table, burying the flechette in the hard oak top with a thunk that rang of finality. "So have a care, Alistair. Because when you are gone, back to your castles and your courts and away from her, _I_ will still be here. Because I am still her man as I swore I was, even if she doesn't want me. I will be the one to put her back together again, and it is for her sake that I beg you - please do not make my task any harder than it has to be. And pray to the Maker that I can put her back together, for if I can't..." The casual tone of his voice was mocking in its unconcern, as if Alistair's life was worth less than a fly one would swat carelessly. "You would not be the first royal to fall under my blade. And it would be a shame to turn such a beautiful man into wormfood."

Alistair felt as if he had walked out onto a frozen lake, only to find that the ice was much thinner than he had thought. He measured his words carefully. "Point taken, Zevran."

"Good." The elf barked a short bitter laugh but behind it he seemed weary, as if the conversation had fed on his very bones for fuel. "I am glad we were able to come to an understanding. I will go back downstairs and allow you to finish bathing." Zevran turned in the doorway and sketched a satirical bow to Alistair. "Your Majesty."

Once he heard the door latch seat properly and he was sure Zevran was truly gone, Alistair stood chattering from water that had gone ice cold. He reached for the towel on the nearby table, only to nearly overbalance as his hand grasped empty air. He gritted his teeth and slammed an open palm down on the table, shaking it with the violence of his frustration.

That bloody rogue had made off with his towel.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks as always goes to finding_marie._

Alistair stood in a small clearing just behind the inn in the grey light of dawn, watching as it brushed the tips of the trees, and his breath hung heavy in the crisp morning air. It was not cold enough for a frost outside, but the dew that had collected on the long grass was every bit as chilled where it seeped through the heavy wool of his winter trousers. He had left his armor behind this morning, opting instead to come outside and work through some basic forms with sword and shield, for exercise more than for practice. He needed some physical activity, needed to sweat the conversation with Zevran and the questions it had raised during the night out of his pores.

He moved smoothly through guards and stances, cuts and thrusts, the movements born of memory grafted into his muscles. He could feel the jittery exhaustion of a restless night tatter slightly with the slicing lungfuls of chill air he sucked in.

A small sound broke him from his thoughts and he paused, midswing with his shield held high to look around the clearing. He peered through the dimly lit trees at his back, the rising sun on the dew sending wisps of fog rising from the grass to haze his view. This far south, it could be Darkspawn or Chasind, and he wasn't about to be taken by surprise. There was no motion to catch his eye, nothing crept into sight, and he soon dismissed it as the normal sounds of the forest.

"Practicing?" The voice was pitched low, just at his ear, and he nearly fell over as he started violently. Regaining his balance he spun to watch as Ophelia flowed into view at his shoulder, pulling back the cloak of shadows she was able to draw around herself, a broad grin on her face and her eyes dancing with repressed laughter.

"Maker's Breath, woman." He grumbled, lowering sword and shield and trying to slow his galloping heart. "I only have twenty-seven years left. Try not to make that time any shorter, please. You nearly scared me to death."

"Sorry," she replied in a tone that said she really wasn't, and crossed her arms to lean against a convenient tree. "So what were you doing? Practice seems unlikely, with you not wearing any armor."

"There was this particularly evil looking squirrel I saw out in that oak tree from my window earlier. I figured I'd come out here and try to prevent him from making any mischief, with a fearsome and intimidating display of my combat prowess." She arched a skeptical brow and he shrugged. "Or I could just be exercising."

She pushed off from the tree to drift closer, plucking at his tunic sleeve. "You know, I think I've seen you out of your armor more these past few weeks than I have in all our time prior."

He leveled a look at her. "You've seen me out of my armor plenty of times, Ophelia. You've seen me out of my clothes too, or did you forget that part?"

She dropped the fabric from between her fingers with a short hasty motion. "There's a difference between forgetting and trying not to remember, Alistair."

He tried to swallow past the hot lump in his throat. "It was that bad, eh?" He trailed the point of his sword along the ground at his feet, heedless of how it might dull the blade. "Compared to Zevran, I'm sure I must have seemed a fumbling idiot."

The words slapped her across the face, and her eyes widened in shock. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing. Forget I mentioned it." Alistair bit the words out, shaking his head sharply and looking away. "It was wrong of me to bring it up."

"Alistair," she said, touching his shoulder, her voice growing insistent at his refusal to meet her eyes. "_Alistair._"

"What?" He ground out, grudgingly holding her gaze.

"You are a beautiful man." As a blush began to stain his cheeks she continued. "And you know it. But you're also the most insecure person I've ever met. How anyone who has been through what you have, has overcome his own past and failings to become the best kind of man possible and can still think so little of himself, I will never understand."

His eyes searched hers, and when he spoke the undercurrent of loss threatened to sweep her away. "Then why didn't you come back?" His sword tip came to rest on the ground at their feet, the hilt sliding loosely from fingers gone numb. "If that's truly what you believe, then why were you so quick to take the opening I gave you and run as far from me as you could?"

His words pulled the air from her lungs, and she couldn't seem to draw breath again. "Is that what you really think? That I saw an easy out and took it? Oh, Alistair." Her humorless laugh shattered across the clearing.

He stammered in confusion, trying to rearrange sounds into words. "I-I don't know? I did. But now I don't know what to think. I never do around you, Ophelia. I thought that would improve over time but..." he trailed off, and a smile of self-mockery twisted his lips. "That doesn't seem to be the case." He reached down to pick his sword off the ground, feeling the weight of her eyes heavy on his back until he straightened up. "Talking with you is like playing catch with a hedgehog for a ball. It doesn't seem to matter how careful I am, I always come away bleeding."

Her rueful smile cut through the worst of the tension roiling around them. "Catch is a two person game, don't forget."

"That's true," he conceded.

She shook herself free from the last of the lingering tension. "I didn't come out here intending to be so melancholy, though - maudlin should wait until after breakfast at least. I wasn't sleeping all that well, and noticed you out here. I thought I'd come and see if I could join you, if maybe you wanted to spar a bit with me."

"With you? Why not, I could use the practice. I've always been weak against you small quick types, and I figure we're far enough away from the inn to keep from waking anyone up." He glanced at her armor, missing only a helmet and gloves, and couldn't stop a cheeky grin from spreading. "You have the advantage on me though, being armored. Although I have no idea how you're not frozen out here, in that little leather skirt." He could sense her hesitation and took on a goading tone. "Only you would choose to wear armor that looked so girly."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she growled, willingly rising to his bait. She stepped back and dropped into a ready stance, drawing the two dirks on her back with a soft hiss of steel. "I'll make you eat those words, Alistair."

He laughed as he brought his longsword and shield up. "Well, I haven't had breakfast yet, come to think of it."

He watched warily as she waited, tension humming in the line of her limbs. He knew she would strike first - she always did. In a blur of motion she darted to his left, trying to get behind him, and he raised his shield just in time. A light blow fell against the scarred aegis, more of a test than a true strike. He spun and brought up his sword to block the second blow he knew would come from the blade in her other hand and she melted away, dancing back out of the range of his longer reach. He surged forward, pressing his momentum, and she stumbled backwards offbalance. Ophelia righted herself and ducked low, under his shield too quickly for him to react, and she slammed an elbow into his gut, stomping his instep in the process for good measure. He grunted, and brought the edge of his shield crashing down on her right forearm as she tried to snake it around toward his kidney.

They backed apart, he gasping for his breath back and she shaking a nerveless hand. "I had almost forgotten how dirty you fight."

"You think that was dirty?" She laughed, and beckoned him mockingly. "I haven't even begun. I'll show you what _filthy_ fighting looks like." She flitted forward, looking to repeat the performance, but he was ready. As she went low he pushed forward, crashing downward with his shield onto her shoulder and bringing his sword down from the other side, forcing her to block his slash with her crossed blades as she knelt on the ground. In a flash she was out, tucking her head down and rolling forward away from of his attack, rising to her feet behind him. Her face was slashed with a fierce grin and her eyes were lit with a grim humor, and Alistair couldn't help but grin back.

She fell on him again, raining sharp staccato blows down at his shoulders and head that he easily batted away with sword and shield. They were an unlikely sparring pair, she the unstoppable force and he the immovable object. Even without his bulky armor he felt like a tortoise around her, as she darted in and out with the speed of an angry wasp. Eventually she relented, the flurry of blows slowing, and he relaxed his stance for a moment to catch his breath. She saw his pause, and struck.

He wasn't sure what happened. One moment he was upright, drawing his weapons forward as he saw her approach, and the next she had slammed into him, sweeping a leg behind him at the back of his knees and bringing the pommel of her right blade down hard on his left shoulder. He had a moment to flail before they both crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and clattering weapons, and he was left staring at the sky with the weight of her pressed on his chest where she was sprawled inelegantly.

"I think I win," he gasped out between fits of laughter.

'What?" She stirred and poked at his chest indignantly. "I think ending up on the ground below me, disarmed, counts as losing the match."

"Perhaps," he replied, with a grin. "But I think ending up on the ground with a lovely woman straddling you counts as winning in most men's books." She glanced down at their position and a rare flush spread across her cheekbones.

Alistair's gloveless hands were resting on the bare skin of her thighs and he couldn't seem to drag his eyes away from the contrast of his darker hands against her paleness. He moved them slightly, not pulling them away but settling them more firmly, smoothing his palms against the soft chilled skin. He dared to look up and saw her staring down at him with grey eyes gone wide, so much like the fog wisping around them in the dawning light. Had it really been so long since he had been here last? He wondered if he would ever find his way out of of her, or if he would spend his life stumbling, a man lost in the mists.

With a muffled groan he slid his hands upwards, so slowly he could feel each individual bump as gooseflesh broke out along her skin. A shudder passed through her, and the soft strangled noise she made deep in her throat flowed like warm honey over him, sweet and thick and dangerous. She leaned into him, ever so slightly, and his restraint crumbled under the languid weight of her. His hands clenched convulsively around her leg, fingers digging deeply into the soft flesh of her upper thigh, just shy of painful.

With an effort he tore his hands away and they flew up to her shoulders, beyond his ability to rein in or control. She fell forward, into his grasping arms, and he crushed her to his chest with the weight of memory riding heavily upon the both of them.

Ophelia lifted her head from his chest, lips parted to speak, and Alistair knew that he couldn't bear to hear what she might say, to have the moment broken before it had begun. With a swift motion he rolled them both over, heedless of the scattered weapons around them, and pinned her legs beneath his own. Her cry of surprise was muffled as he slanted his lips across hers.

He expected her to hit him, maybe to pick up one of her discarded knives and stab him in the back. What he didn't expect was for her to open beneath him, to part her lips in welcome. He followed her breath in, chasing it into the dark secret behind her lips to sweep across the roof of her mouth, the edge of her teeth, the soft heat of her tongue. He wanted to trail it all the way, to lose himself inside the dark warm depths of her and never find his way out again.

She surged up, pressing back against him to tangle her arms around his neck and he was undone. He broke away from the kiss to trail his fevered mouth along her jaw and she tipped her head back, the heedless abandon in the smooth white line of her arching neck driving him to the brink of madness. He brought a hand up to trace along her cheek, down that achingly slender throat to feather his fingers across her collarbone.

"Stop," she said, the words a ragged whisper in his ear.

He pulled away, confusion clouding his face as she struggled beneath him.

"Stop, stop!" she insisted, squirming out of his arms and rising to stand before him in disarray, with a wild kind of fear in her eyes.

He picked himself painfully up off the ground, the morning much colder than it had been moments ago. "What? What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing happened." She blew out a ragged breath, running hands through her hair to smooth it, and her next words were tempered with sadness. "I just remembered who I am, and who you are."

"And who am I?" he asked softly, the color in his face bleeding away with the fading memory of her lips.

She smoothed her face into a pale blank mask. "Exactly the same man I knew before."

"Is that such a bad thing?" He held himself with a careful stillness. He already knew the answer, and he feared it might splinter him into a thousand tiny shards of grief.

"It is when I'm not the same woman. You haven't changed a bit, Alistair. If your hand is forced, duty will come first. Long ago, I was willing to fool myself into thinking otherwise. But I'm not that same woman, who foolishly believed that love would fix everything. And I will be damned if I give you a second chance to turn away from me again.""

A small sound limped out before he could crush down on his voice, and her face crumpled but she braced her shoulders and plunged ahead. "The me of long ago would have continued that kiss. But you were right the first time around, about us. Without the possibility of an heir your rule is weakened, by your short life and your lack of relatives. Your death would mean years of struggle to settle the right of succession. How can you ask me to knowingly plunge this country into civil war, after we did so much to save it?"

She stopped, and a frown ghosted across her brow. "I've had a great deal of time to contemplate the nature of what you taught me about duty, Alistair. And you were right to send me away, to force us both into doing what was right for our country. I talked you into shirking duty once, out of my own shameful selfishness. And look where it has gotten us." She swept a hand towards the treeline, the damp dripping pines. "In the middle of winter, dragging ourselves through a boggy forest, chasing a fiend that we might have created, that might be killing innocent children." The anguish in her cracked voice scrabbled at his ears. She was pallid and cold, and the blankness of her stare set worry curling through his chest.

"Come here." Alistair beckoned, and growled at her hesitation. "Maker's Breath woman, I'm not going to accost you, you've made your postion on that very clear. But can I at least comfort a friend who looks like she needs it?"

At her slow nod he closed the gap between them and folded her in his arms. She took a deep shuddering breath and then relaxed, her arms slowly coming up around his back.

"Thank you." she murmered. "I tend to forget that I have those, sometimes."

They stood in silence, taking comfort in a moment of fleeting familiarity.

"Well, isn't this just a touching scene." The scalding words took them both by surprise.

Ophelia straightened in Alistair's arms, drawing composure over her face as easily as she pulled on a helm, locking away all traces of emotion with an eerie speed that terrified Alistair. Faster than he could follow she had snatched her discarded blades off the ground and dashed into the treeline. In the shade of a large fir tree he could see an indistinct shape, hear a dry humorless laughter.

"You." Ophelia hissed as she slid to a stop, like an angry cat spitting at shadows.

"How fortunate that it was _I_ who found you smothering each other, and not my mother." The shadows parted and Morrigan swept into the clearing, bedraggled and travelstained. There were grim lines around her mouth, and her golden eyes were flat and hunted as she glanced around the clearing.

"Your mother?" Alistair struggled with the words as they clung to his tongue like burrs.

"Yes, my mother. Shall I speak slower, and in smaller words, Alistair? Perhaps you remember Flemeth. Supposedly she died in agony at the hands of Ophelia. Only that doesn't seem to be the case at all, does it?" The venom in her tone coursed through their veins, freezing them in place.

"Your mother?" Alistair repeated, his brain unable to move past that phrase. "But I thought..."

Shards of recollection fell together to form a seamless truth. Ophelia had refused to take him to Flemeth's, opting instead to take Shale, Leliana, and Wynne. And they had returned, suspiciously clean and lacking the stench of battle. "You never killed Flemeth, did you?" he asked Ophelia, the words coming out flat and dull, his breath ragged. He pointed at Morrigan with a trembling finger. "I don't even like her, but she deserves better than that. From you, especially. She trusted you."

"I had to lie," Ophelia whispered, her mouth a grim slash as she pressed her lips together, refusing to look away from Morrigan. "I've done a lot of things that I'm not proud of in the name of saving this country. I had to choose - risk losing Morrigan if I refused her request, or risk someone dying in an attempt to kill Flemeth. I decided to...compromise."

The mage inclined her head in a slow nod, a humorless smile twisting her lips. "So very calculating of you, Ophelia. I would not have thought you to have it in your nature."

Ophelia narrowed her eyes, brushing off Morrigan's bitter compliment. "You're alone."

The iron that had been stiffening her spine leached away, and Morrigan drooped slightly in its wake. "Yes, I am. My son is gone, stolen by Flemeth almost two months ago. And before you ask, no I don't know why. My theory..." her flat tone hitched slightly before she continued. "I assume that she has decided not to bother with me, and is instead looking to him as her future host. Or perhaps she is trying to use him as bait, to get me to return." Morrigan broke off, her jaw working as she struggled with the next words and she refused to meet either Warden's eyes. "I do not know, but when I heard the rumors that The Grey Lady was on the move near the Korcari Wilds I came looking for you, to ask for your assistance." Morrigan looked up, a feral kind of desperation in her eyes as she struggled with the foreign words. "I fear what Flemeth may be capable of, if she has him. Help me find my son."

Ophelia's wary stance softened. "You mean you have nothing to do with the disappearances around here?"

"What disappearances?" Morrigan drew her brows together in confusion.

"Children have been going missing in the night in villages surrounding the Korcari Wilds."

"What care I for other children? I am out here on account of one missing child - my own," she said dismissively.

Ophelia's mouth worked for a moment, before she bent stiffly at the waist towards Morrigan in a smooth bow. "Then you have my apologies, Morrigan. For suspecting you were the cause."

The witch blinked, and was silent for a moment as she studied the other woman with hooded eyes. "Very well. I accept your apology, Ophelia. And I am coming with you."

Alistair twitched. "What?"

"I...am...coming...with...you. Was that slow and enunciated enough for you, Alistair? I assure you, I'm just as thrilled as you are about the arrangement." Morrigan crossed her arms. "However I am realistic, and it would work best if you tried to be the same. I can't save my son alone, and unless you plan to defeat this evil by rattling your swords at every shadow...you will need my help, too. No one knows Flemeth better than I do."

"No. Just - no. A thousand times, no." Alistair shook his head furiously.

Ophelia's glare singed the air between them. "And why not, Alistair? Either she's innocent and I owe her assistance, or she is a part of this somehow. If that is the case I'd rather have her where I can see her than chasing the ghost of her all over southern Ferelden."

He sputtered, grasping for words before lapsing into resignation. "Fine," he muttered unhappily.

"How interesting," Morrigan mused. "A King now, and he still asks 'How high?' if she tells him to jump. Will you ever tire of following others, Alistair?"

He glared at Morrigan darkly. "Forget it, you harpy. You can't bait me."

"A pity," she sighed. "It would make this unpleasant arrangement much more bearable. I shall wait for you both inside the inn." Morrigan turned away and began picking a path through the long grass towards the squat building.

"Morrigan." She paused without turning around, and when he spoke again Alistair's voice was flayed and raw with emotion. "Can I ask...what is his name?"

She bent her head, still facing away from them, and the silence lapped at their feet for so long that Ophelia felt sure she wouldn't answer. When she finally did, the hoarse words carried to them as she began moving purposefully toward the inn.

"His name is Hessarian."


End file.
